


A House Divided Against Itself

by destinationtoast



Series: Againstverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to get John and Mary to move in with him.  What can possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Not Against the Rules](http://archiveofourown.org/works/856882/chapters/1640324) and will make more sense if you read that one first. This was written before I knew much about S3 and probably has little to do with S3. Please no spoilers for S3 in the comments until it's aired everywhere.
> 
> Thanks so much to Lisa E., [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy), and [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas) for their extremely helpful feedback -- I'd be lost without my betas. Thanks also so much to [jmathieson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo) for the Britpick help and additional feedback! And thank you to everyone who listened to me angst about the writing process and was supportive -- this was a tough one to write.

“Can we talk about this when we’re not being shot at?”

“John, we’re in no danger of being hit. The angles are impossible, and Lestrade’s team will be here at any moment.”

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Mary chimes in, “I have agree with John. I think better when there aren’t bullets flying by a few inches from my head.”

Sherlock sighs. Is this how things will be, now -- the overvalued principle of democracy causing their two votes to count for more than the pure rationality of his own? Now that the case has been solved and the criminals tracked down (mid-crime, and rather jumpy and violent, it turns out), what else is there to do while they’re being shot at besides discuss the matter at hand? He slides down against the museum wall and resigns himself to boredom while waiting for New Scotland Yard to arrive.

“Don’t sulk, Sherlock,” John says. “We’ll be home soon enough; we can talk then.”

He doesn’t _sulk._ He huffs an affronted sigh and crosses his arms at the accusation. And they won’t be home soon. There are always questions, paperwork. 

Sherlock is correct in his prediction -- obviously -- and it’s several hours before they make it back to Baker Street. Once they do, they all collapse, exhausted, onto the sofa -- it’s a bit of a squish with all three of them, but by default, both Sherlock and Mary tend to sit next to John, and right now they’re too tired to find an alternate arrangement.

“You called it ‘home’; it would hardly be a large shift,” Sherlock says, picking the thread of the discussion back up as he rests his cheek against the top of John’s head, enjoying the relatively unusual sensation of sweat- and grime-coated locks rubbing against his face. He wonders if, in the future, he will learn to tell where John has been just from the texture of the particles in his hair. 

John groans. “Give us a moment to rest first, would you?”

Rest, like bullets, is irrelevant to logic. Sherlock ignores him. “Mary, you must see that you would both save money as well as time if you both moved into Baker Street. It’s closer to your work. And less time wasted when there’s a case.” 

Mary lifts up her own head from John’s other shoulder and looks at him through drooping eyelids. “Yes, I can’t argue with that.”

“Excellent, then it’s settled.” 

“Hang on, I didn’t say that,” Mary says.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s also a bit complicated, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why.”

Mary sighs. “Frankly, Sherlock, you don’t seem that easy to live with. John’s told me stories, you know.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists. He supposes the long string of flatmates who lasted only weeks -- or days -- prior to John is evidence of this, but he’d always assumed John found him to be a good flatmate. John slept better when he lived with Sherlock than when he was on his own and was generally happier and healthier than before they met; Sherlock knows that much. But living with Mary presumably provides John with many of the same advantages, leaving Sherlock’s odder habits more evident by contrast. 

Sherlock plays his trump card. “The two of you can have my bedroom. It’s larger than John’s old room, and larger than your current one. Nicer, too. And I promise not to experiment in it.”

“Really?” John says, surprised. “You’d move upstairs?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t use my bedroom much, anyway.” 

“True. But you’re so lazy,” John teases gently. “Are you sure you can make it all the way down the stairs to check on your experiments in the kitchen or make tea, on those days when you can’t be arsed to get out of your pajamas -- or your sheet?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. He wouldn’t bother to go upstairs on such days, anyway; he prefers the sofa.

“Hm,” says Mary, still not sounding satisfied. “We had talked about moving… but to a bigger place, with another bedroom.”

“This place has two bedrooms.” Sherlock would have thought this was belaboring the obvious, but who knows what other people’s tiny minds are aware of.

“Yes, but they’re both occupied,” Mary points out. “Or they would be.” 

“And?” 

“Well, we’d wanted a guest room.”

“You rarely host guests. There are ample hotels near here which would be convenient on such rare occasions.”

“She means for dates,” John says. 

“If Mary has a date, you’ll sleep with me, of course.” John is being slow. Unless… “You’re not planning to go on dates with other people, are you, John?” Sherlock tenses. 

“Not likely, no. You two keep me busier than I can handle, just about.” Sherlock relaxes a bit. Somehow, over the past few months, Mary has been managing not to take up too much of John’s time, or to place unreasonable expectations on him, like that he shouldn’t be shot at. But Sherlock doesn’t like the idea of sharing John more broadly.

“Mary, you don’t plan on needing multiple beds for your dates, do you?” He has always imagined that most threesomes and other multi-person arrangements require only one bed, and he had assumed Mary would be on a date with one person at a time anyway, but realizes he has not gathered sufficient data to justify either conclusion.

Mary giggles, and John joins in. Sherlock fails to see what’s so funny. “No, wasn’t planning it,” she says after catching her breath.

“Then two should be the perfect number of bedrooms.”

John and Mary exchange a look. “Maybe John doesn’t want me having sex with other people in our bed,” Mary says. John half-shrugs but doesn’t disagree.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Why?”

John sighs. “Sentiment, I guess you’d call it.” 

“She can have sex with other people in my bed, then, I suppose.”

John snorts, though once again, it wasn’t intended to be a humorous remark. “Look, Sherlock, we’re going to have to discuss this.”

“We are discussing it.”

“Me and Mary, I mean.”

“Fine. Discuss it.”

John glares at him. “Not _now._ Later.” 

“Fine, you can have both the bedrooms.” That should settle it.

“Oh, no,” Mary starts to protest. John starts talking at the same time. 

“Sherlock, you can’t just solve things by giving us more bedrooms,” John says, as if it’s obvious.

“Why not?”

“It’s not the point,” John says.

Now he’s just being frustrating. “I thought bedrooms were precisely the point!” Mary is watching their increasingly heated exchange with some interest, like an observer at a tennis match where the ball might turn out to actually be a grenade.

“Not necessarily,” John says. “There might be other issues, too.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! We have to talk about it.”

“Are they secret issues?”

John rolls his eyes. “No.”

“You have entirely hypothetical non-secret reasons for not moving in with me,” he states icily. Mary now has an odd, slightly strained look on her face. Is she… trying not to laugh?

John sputters. “Look, Sherlock. There are many reasons I might like to move in here -- though right now I must admit that I can’t remember a single one -- but you’re going to have to give me and Mary some time to think about it and discuss it on our own. You just have to. It’s, it’s a requirement, all right?”

Sherlock frowns. “But if you do that, I can’t correct your erroneous thinking.”

Mary gives into giggles at this point while John glares, then says. “That’s something you’ll just have to learn to handle. Now look, we’re tired, and we were just being shot at, and I’m famished. Can we just declare a truce for now and order some takeaway?” 

“Great idea!” Mary agrees. She bounds off the couch with a surprising display of energy and heads for the kitchen.

“A truce implies a battle, John. I am presenting logically incontrovertible facts indicating that we will all be happier with you both living here.”

“Only if you’re living elsewhere,” John mutters.

“Dim sum?” Mary says brightly, reemerging with a takeaway menu in hand.

* * *

Sherlock plays his violin and watches out the window, awaiting the arrival of John, Mary, and the movers. John had wanted to do the move himself, with the help of a few friends, but Mary had worried about John straining his shoulder, and Sherlock had opined that lifting and setting down boxes repeatedly was one of the most boring activities imaginable. Together, they had prevailed. Then there had been arguments about whether Sherlock should be contributing financially toward the movers and how much; after a great deal of argument, they had settled on him paying a third of the cost. John still fretted over Sherlock taking on a large portion of their personal expenses, having no idea that Sherlock had already invested a far greater sum in their move.

John and Mary had taken too long to discuss whether or not to move to Baker Street on their own (surely such a discussion could not take more than a few hours, or days at best) and had failed to produce any legitimate reasons not to move. After generously allowing an entire week to pass without response, Sherlock had taken matters into his own hands. 

The landlord who had owned their former flat had not been intending to sell the building, but, like most people, he had a price that he couldn’t refuse. It did not take much research into his personal history for Sherlock to determine that price.

Two weeks after their initial conversation, John grumbled to him over a corpse, “Looks like you might get your wish soon, after all. We’re getting kicked out -- landlord decided to sell the place. And the prices on other places are shite right now.”

“Ah. Yes.” It had taken Sherlock some time to seed all the online housing sites with enough fake expensive listings to make the market look significantly pricier than it was (and to get some of the cheaper listings taken down on suspicion of being scams), but it was worth it. He knew neither John nor Mary would dig deeply into the listings -- which would not hold up to intense scrutiny -- but he figured they might feel obligated to do due diligence on all their options before accepting the logical outcome.

“I don’t think he was strangled, actually,” John said, pointing to the fingernails. “They’re not blue -- plus, perfectly manicured. He didn’t struggle.” Sherlock nodded, pleased, and they turned their attention to the crime momentarily, before returning to the other topic.

“Anyway, thanks for giving us some time to talk it over. You’ve been remarkably good, and patient, and I know it’s been irking you not to be a part of that discussion. But we just needed to think about it on our own for a while. Thanks for easing off for a bit.”

“Of course.” Once it had become obvious that applying direct pressure was just going to make John dig in more stubbornly, there had been no point in continuing that tactic.

That was all that was said on the topic; after that, it was purely a discussion of logistics, primarily between Sherlock and Mary. And now the day has arrived.

Finally -- finally! -- a black cab stops and they emerge. Moments later, the moving lorry pulls up.

Sherlock finds the next few hours unexpectedly irritating. They’re finally here. He wants them here, for as long as they’ll stay. But the beginning of the being here, the moving in process, is unpleasant -- there is endless arguing over logistics and disrupting of Sherlock’s experiments. The kitchen is thrown into complete disarray to make room for the second fridge that Mary has insisted upon; one of the fridges is soon labeled “NO BODY PARTS”, leading to some strange looks from the movers. An Erlenmeyer flask gets broken and three petri dishes rendered useless while the rest of the kitchen is rearranged. 

Outside the kitchen is no better. There are new piles and boxes all over the living room, getting mixed in with the old piles and boxes from the latest case. On top of it all, John asks him to stop playing the violin. (“It sounds like you’re killing a cat. If you’re not going to help, you could at least be quiet.”) 

He huffs indignantly; he is helping. He hired movers to move things, and he is issuing them instructions on where to move them -- it’s hardly his fault if nobody is listening to him (he wonders if John and Mary warned the movers to ignore him ahead of time). He finally gives up and heads downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson. 

“Hello, dear,” she answers his knock. “I thought you might come by. Tea?” Without waiting, she heads back to the kitchen table, where two cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits sit. Sherlock sits down and takes a biscuit, nipping at it irritably.

“Having a bit of a domestic already?” Mrs. Hudson clucks, sitting down and pouring from the teapot. “Ah, but moving in together is hard.”

“It wasn’t hard before,” he mutters, watching her add sugar to the tea.

“Well, no. But then, you weren’t together before, were you? Oh, I thought you were, at first, though. No surprise, really -- you were already more in love with him by a week in than I ever was with any of my beaus, I think. But it took him a while to catch up with you, hm?”

Sherlock, busy dissecting his second biscuit to examine the unexpected creme filling with an artificial flavor he can’t quite identify, does not answer. “I’m so glad he’s moving back in with you. I was worried he wouldn’t,” Mrs. Hudson continues.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Mary might have interfered.” He squishes some filling between his fingers experimentally, noting the slight grittiness and the fact that his body heat is sufficient to turn it noticeably gooier.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chides. “Try not to get that on my lace tablecloth. I wasn’t worried about Mary, actually. She seems charming, and very modern -- and you’re hardly a stickler for tradition, are you? Once I saw that John was looking at you the same way he looked at her, I knew you’d all sort something out. I was alive in the sixties, you know. I’ve seen all sorts of arrangements.”

Sherlock, setting the biscuit aside, raises an eyebrow at her. Mrs. Hudson still manages to surprise him, sometimes. Funny how people do that occasionally, even after all this time. “No, Sherlock. I was worried before that. That he wouldn’t forgive you for leaving, for not letting him know you were still alive. Goodness knows it was difficult enough for me to.”

The gentle statement is the closest she’s ever come to reprimanding him. He shrinks into his chair just a little bit. Mrs. Hudson reaches out and pats his hand. “I do, though, Sherlock, dear. I do completely. Every time I start to feel angry or hurt, I just think how it must have been for you, all alone for all that time. Nobody to talk to, no way to let us know without putting us at risk.”

Sherlock nods, relaxes. She understands. Nobody else has said it. “I was worried about John, though. He was in a bad way, without you. And he gets so angry, sometimes, especially with you. Even though he loves you. Because he loves you.” She pauses and sips her tea. “Even if it wasn’t fair, I was worried he wouldn’t take you back.” Then she smiles and pats his hand once more. “But he did. And now here he is, moving in with you again. And with Mary, too. She’s lovely!” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Is she?” Mrs. Hudson has never particularly cared for any of John’s girlfriends before, though she’s always been kind to them in a cursory sort of way. 

“Well of course she is! She puts up with you two.” She smiles fondly. “Of course that’s not all of it. She seems bright and able to take care of herself in a tight spot. No shrieking and fainting when men with guns break in, I’ll wager.” Sherlock nods agreement. Mrs. Hudson understands the important things.

“And it seems she likes you,” Mrs. Hudson continues. Sherlock shrugs. “Which more people should, of course, but you don’t exactly let them close, do you?” 

She leans forward and clutches his forearm tightly, and he lets her. “Let them close,” she tells him earnestly. “Close as you can, dear. Tell them everything. It’s like I said -- I’ve seen all sorts of arrangements. But the ones that work… those are the ones where people are honest with each other. You’ve a fine young man upstairs, and a fine young lady, too. So you let them close.”

His thoughts fly back across a dozen years -- more, though he’s deleted the exact date -- to a another conversation. He remembers maps and atlases. He remembers lightning-fast thoughts; a perfect high.

He flinches back from her grasp. “And that’s worked out so well for you, has it?” he snaps. “Ex-husband dead, no word from your son in over a decade? I hardly think you’re in a position to give relationship advice.”

Mrs. Hudson gives him a stern glance. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, because I know that you’re nervous and lashing out. I’m going to pretend you said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll think about what you said.’ You can pretend that, too.” With that, she’s up and about puttering around to fetch more biscuits and talking about her hip and what’s on the telly and ignoring his flushed cheeks. Her capabilities of ignoring his unpleasant bits are part of why they’ve always got on so well. Still, he feels chagrined. One doesn’t lash out at Mrs. Hudson; he’s yelled at Mycroft for less. He shoots her his best apologetic glance next time she looks at him, and she smiles and squeezes his hand.

He knows that he isn’t likely to get life advice from her again for years -- her last such speech was back before she let the flat to him. Her advice back then had worked -- to find a flatmate you should look for friends of friends; you should be upfront about any qualities that might put people off, but also show off your own best side; you should take an interest in their personal history. He had been dubious, but the advice had netted him John, who was far superior to any previous flatmate -- or person -- Sherlock had ever had an association with. 

Nonetheless, he will not be taking her current advice; he has his own experience to draw on, in this case, and has no intention of letting John and Mary closer in some dimensions. They are here, in Baker Street, at last, and that is close enough.


	2. Chapter 2

“Your brother abducted me today,” Mary says, fastening an earring as she looks at herself in the mirror.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, leaning against the door frame. “Offered you money, did he?”

“Twice.” 

Twice? From his current vantage point, he can easily watch Mary’s preparations and John’s pacing, down the hall in the sitting room. He watches John’s fist clench, unclench, and clench again in syncopated counter-rhythm to his strides. “To spy on me and report back?” Sherlock asks, absently.

“Yeah, or to move out.”

“Ah, of course.” Sherlock nods. Mary’s hand freezes on the way to pick up the comb. John’s hand never freezes. Clench, unclench.

“Of course?” Mary repeats. “ Does Mycroft dislike me that much?”

“He doesn’t dislike you,” Sherlock explains. “He doesn’t think about you at all.”

“Right, that’s comforting,” she says. Unlike John’s sarcasm, hers is delivered with a wide, if fake, smile. John, meanwhile, has stopped pacing and is sitting down on the sofa. He grabs a magazine off the side table and leafs through it mechanically. 

“Mycroft is thinking of me,” Sherlock explains. “He knows I was relatively stable with John here, before. He just wants to reproduce that situation.”

“So he’d rather make John hideously unhappy by getting me to break up with him?” Hideously unhappy is an apt description of John’s current state. He turns the pages of his periodical with the barely-contained energy of a violin string tuned to the point of nearly snapping. Sherlock sees what Mary can’t, or won’t. From his vantage, he watches John’s agitated state, but he knows John will do his best to hide it as soon as Mary emerges, just as he always does. But if she just peered around the doorway now, surely she would see how unhappy he is. Wouldn’t she? 

Ordinary people, though. They miss so much. Perhaps she would not know unless Sherlock told her.

He remembers scribbled notebooks. He remembers a kiss.

He won’t tell her.

He glances at Mary, finds her watching him, waiting for an answer. “He doesn’t think about John, either. Except insofar as John helps me. And he knows John’s recovered from worse, before.” 

Mary’s lips compress into a thin line at that. “It was mostly a test, though,” he clarifies. Her mouth does not relax. “You passed.”

“Wonderful,” she mutters. “Well, at least he didn’t abduct me during my date.” She leans forward toward the mirror and begins applying mascara. Sherlock would normally watch her with interest; he has not yet had occasion to disguise himself as a female or otherwise wear makeup for a case, but he might someday, and he finds the details of Mary’s preparation instructive. Now, however, he keeps finding his gaze drawn back to John as he curls and uncurls his fingers against the arm of the sofa. He stares into space, the magazine forgotten in his lap. 

“Speaking of which,” Mary continues, “she should be here soon. Now… out, please.”

Sherlock blinks. “Why?” 

“I’ve decided the other dress is better, after all.” When he doesn’t move, she says, “I’m going to take off my clothes now.”

“That’s fine.”

“Sherlock, get out.”

“I assure you, I’m not attracted to -- ”

“Out.” She pushes him firmly backward through the doorway. “Go talk to John and figure out what the two of you are doing tonight,” she says and shuts the door.

Sherlock sighs irritably. He walks out to the sitting room, where John has just stood. “I’m going out,” John says stiffly. “Get a paper.”

Sherlock stares at the two unread papers already littering the flat floor, still rolled up and pristine. He sighs and lets John procure a third, hoping it will help calm him. 

He watches from the window until John returns. It’s time to divert John’s thoughts from their obvious, boring, hamster-wheel progression. As John opens the door to the flat, Sherlock grabs him by the shoulder and turns him sideways. He pins John against the doorframe and presses their mouths together.

“Mmmmphgmmhm, Shrmmmm!” John says, dropping the paper to the floor to mix with the others. “Whmmrmmmng?” Sherlock ignores him. John stiffens, but in all the wrong ways, struggling a little against Sherlock. Sherlock disregards his efforts and keeps kissing him. Eventually, John relaxes into the kiss, and Sherlock moves his lips off of John’s mouth now that it has stopped its undoubted perfunctory exclamations regarding the non-normality of kissing in doorways. A minute later, his hands are creeping downward to Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock is fairly certain that John is no longer thinking about Mary’s impending date. Sherlock is congratulating himself on a successful distraction and enjoying the desperate way John grasps his gluteal muscles as Sherlock molests his auricle when Mary’s date arrives.

“Oh! Um, hi,” she says, pausing awkwardly on the landing outside the flat. Sherlock, unfinished with his impromptu experiment to determine the optimal combination of tongue and teeth to apply to John’s helix, ignores her and attempts to continue his testing. John ruins the trial by pushing him away. 

“Hello, Erica,” John says breathlessly, giving a demonstration of the impressive density of capillaries in his cheeks and their vasodilation capabilities. “Come in, won’t you?” He sounds grim and tense once more as he guides Sherlock forcibly into the flat and pushes him toward the sofa. “I’ll go tell Mary you’re here,” John says, not meeting her eyes. 

Sherlock watches John go, his fist clenching again, and feels frustration and a strange sort of ache. He sprawls onto the sofa, turning his attention to Erica with a mixture of irritation and curiosity.

“You must be Sherlock,” Erica says, looking uncertainly at the chairs, all across the room, then shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. She’s tall -- nearly six feet -- apparently Mary doesn’t have a type in terms of height. She picks at the hem of her sundress self-consciously.

“Five years,” he says. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Your sandals and your necklace are from India, but your pallor says you’ve not been recently. If it were just the necklace, it might be a gift, but the sandals are utilitarian enough that you acquired them yourself. The wear on them says you’ve owned them for approximately five years, which was the time frame in which Mary was herself in India, working on her dissertation. You’re not in medicine, you work in a charitable organization, which is clear from your sandals. You’re vice president of the organization -- Mary said you attended a board meeting last week, but you’re young enough and work long enough hours that you’re probably not president yet, but striving to achieve the title. Vice president, then, but still wearing five-year-old sandals… for-profit companies pay their employees better, thus a charity. So you weren’t part of Mary’s school program; you were there as a volunteer, probably VSO. That’s where you met her, and became fast friends -- two Londoners of about the same age -- though you’re younger by three years -- meeting in a foreign land. Five years ago.”

Erica looks dazed. “She said you were like this,” she muses. “But I thought she was exaggerating. She didn’t tell you any of this?”

Sherlock ignores her. “Why now?”

She blinks. “What?” 

“Five years you’ve known her. Why did you only ask her out on a date now?”

She laughs and relaxes just a little. “Yeah, I’ve spent plenty of time asking myself the same thing. I never got up the nerve quick enough, I guess. Someone else always made a move first. She hasn’t spent much time being single, you know.” 

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “And you don’t take it as a bad sign that she never asked you out in all those years? You’re not worried that she only said yes out of politeness, and that you’re about to ruin your closest friendship?”

Erica’s eyes widen. “I -- um --” 

Before she can voice her thought, Mary sweeps into the room, followed by John. “Hello, Gorgeous,” she says to Erica, approaching with her arms outstretched. There is a moment of hesitation on Erica’s part before she decides to just hug Mary -- they haven’t kissed yet, Sherlock realizes. Mary embraces Erica for a long moment, then takes her face in both hands, pulls her head down, and kisses her deeply. “Don’t listen to whatever he’s been telling you,” Mary says breathlessly, pulling back. 

John is baring his teeth in a woeful imitation of a smile and looking everywhere except Mary and Erica. His jealousy is palpable, unmistakable, filling the room, and Sherlock waits for Mary -- or Erica -- to react.

Instead, Erica just looks dazed again, but in a much happier way than before. She grins giddily. “Oh, my God,” she says to Mary, utterly ignoring John. “You look -- wow. I, uh, think I made plans for us, but I’ve just forgotten every one of them.”

“Perhaps we can just stay in, then,” Mary says with a wink. “Sherlock has kindly volunteered his bed for us to have sex in.” Sherlock hopes she’s not serious, given the condition of John (jealousy-filled) and of Sherlock’s bed (experiment-filled), but he suspects based on the women’s loud burst of giggling that she’s not. 

John clears his throat. “Right, I’ll just, um. Make tea. Or something.”

Mary notices John at last. “We’re actually on our way out, really -- give me a kiss before we go?” John eyes Erica, then leans to brush his lips against Mary’s. She pulls him in for a slightly longer one, though he’s about as responsive as a wooden plank, from the looks of it.

“Have fun,” she whispers with a grin as she releases him. “I’ll be back before too long.”

John smiles back, tight-lipped. “You girls have fun, too.” 

“We will,” Erica grins. She holds out her arm to Mary. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” says Mary. She gives John and Sherlock a last smile, then walks out of the flat arm-in-arm with Erica.

As soon as the women leave the flat, John begins pacing again. Sherlock watches him for a few minutes, then pulls him down onto the sofa to attempt to resume distracting him. 

Even after Sherlock has forcibly pinned him to the sofa and snogged him, John refuses to be distracted. He pulls back to say, as if continuing an earlier conversation, “And did you see how they kissed?” 

Sherlock says with the skin of John’s neck between his teeth, ”With their lips. And tongues.” He starts employing his once more. 

John sighs, but not in the intended fashion. “They’re probably doing it again, now. Or they’re… _talking._ ” He makes it sound like something dirty. “Sometimes, it’s like they have their own language. Christ, sometimes they finish each other’s sentences.” Sherlock, moving tongue and teeth along John’s collarbone, hears the accompanying thought as clear as if John were speaking it.

“I don’t believe Mary views it as a competition,” Sherlock responds. He unbuttons John’s shirt and traces a path with his mouth toward John’s nipple.

John squirms, but continues talking. “Of course not. But.” 

But John can’t keep from seeing it that way. And even though Sherlock can’t understand how John would think he could be on the losing end of such a competition, John clearly does fear that. And none of Sherlock’s actions are helping.

Sherlock relinquishes John’s nipple and his hopes of distracting him with sex. He flops down beside John with a sigh, slithering into the space between him and the cushions at the back of the sofa. “We could sabotage their date,” he offers.

“What? No! Don’t be daft.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the accusation. His suggestion is an entirely logical one. But If John won’t take him up on it, he’ll have to resort to something else. “You should talk to Lestrade,” he says.

“What?” John stares.

“He wanted us to look at something he thought might be a clue in an old case.” Lestrade sent several texts several hours ago, and Sherlock ignored them, but now it seems like a good opportunity. “Do you recall the murdered fortune teller, several months back? It seems Lestrade’s found an axe that’s connected to the crime.”

John’s brow furrows. “She wasn’t killed with an axe, was she? I thought it was poison.”

“No, the axe belonged to her -- some sort of arcane divination device. She had a collection, but one was missing -- and now it’s turned up across town, at the scene of an apparently unrelated burglary.”

John still looks slightly confused at the sudden shift of topic, but just says, “Right. Sounds important. Let’s go.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “John, you are developing admirably as an investigator in your own right. You should take this one.”

John snorts. “Right. The case must be, what, about a three, then?” Nonetheless, he gets up and grabs his jacket, then pauses, glancing uncertainly down the hall toward the bedroom. 

“You won’t need your gun, I assure you. It’s all just photos and bagged evidence, at this point.”

John nods. “Good. I can’t find it, since the move -- maybe you can use your detective skills to look through some of the unopened boxes while I’m out. Even help unpack a bit, while you’re at it.”

“Mm.”

John snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll do that. Right, then.” He puts on his jacket and heads out. 

Sherlock sighs in relief, stretching out fully on the sofa. At last, he is free to think about other things.

He thinks about John. He thinks about John and all the things he would like to be doing with John and all the alternate ways he would like to make John’s fists clench, if only John would pay attention to Sherlock. But he will not, and it is abominable. 

He had thought Mary would be the problem, the one who would wreck what he’d had with John, who would take up all of John’s time and leave none for Sherlock. But that mostly isn’t the case. Mostly, Mary takes up John’s time and attention when Sherlock doesn’t want or need it -- or she shares. Mostly, Mary fits in surprisingly well with their detective lifestyle. There are rough patches, but frequently, Mary smooths things out. She makes John calmer, happier, and more willing to respond reasonably to Sherlock’s more unconventional methods. On the whole, Mary is a positive force in both their lives.

No, it turns out Erica is the problem. Or rather, Mary’s interest in Erica. It upsets the previous relative stability of their relationships -- a stability they experienced for only a few short weeks of cohabitation. They had not even had a chance to solve any truly satisfying cases, or to travel together to Paris, as they’d discussed, before it was all disrupted by Erica. Mary’s interest in someone else distracts and upsets John, which in turn distracts Sherlock to a disturbing degree. He cannot focus on anything when all of John’s thoughts are so loud and take up all the space in Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock considers methods for improving the situation. He discards immediately any that involve getting help from Mycroft in causing Erica to disappear, as the resulting situation would probably be unpleasant in other ways. He also considers blackmailing Erica to leave Mary, but no -- he could surely succeed at finding secrets she would rather not have brought to light, but blackmail is the tool of the worst villains of London, and he will not stoop to it.

It might be most effective not to deal with Erica at all. Mary has a high degree of empathy. Sherlock could cause her guilt. Mary is unaware of the harsh effects of her actions on John. John is clearly working to keep it that way, but Sherlock could tell her, even if John wishes it concealed. She would have to stop seeing Erica then. 

It seems like a straightforward plan, and yet, he hesitates.

He remembers a shattering glass. He remembers the bruise.

He discards that plan.

He scowls as the door reopens and John returns. How many hours did he waste thinking about this non-work-related issue? Mycroft is right, about caring. And he hates when Mycroft is right.

“I think we might have solved it,” John says, taking off his coat. “Budge over.” He lifts Sherlock’s feet enough to sit beneath them and drop them into his lap. 

John proudly describes his work with Lestrade, and Sherlock points out all their errors. Still, on the whole, John and Lestrade have not made too much of a mess. It was an easy case, after all, and they have his example to learn from.

He and John are still discussing the case when Mary gets home. Sherlock’s desire to reward John’s moderate cleverness on the case by removing John’s clothes evaporates as he looks at the fond, relieved, worried way that John watches her. He sends the two of them off to bed, since he can see that John is once again caught up in the pull of thinking about Mary and Erica, and will be of no further use to Sherlock. He stays up and continues to ponder solutions to the problem.


	3. Chapter 3

“Erica’s aunts are ministers,” Sherlock announces the following morning. John has gone out for a run -- a transparent move to make himself more physically fit and attractive to Mary; he has not run recreationally since his military days. Mary is making eggs while Sherlock cleans and oils his microscope.

“That’s correct,” Mary says, her rising tone making a question of it. She doesn’t understand, though the evidence is right in front of her. 

Frowning, Sherlock tries again. “Erica’s mother has been failing to make her bank payments.” 

Mary turns to stare at him sharply. “Has Mycroft been surveilling her family?” 

She’s missing the obvious again. “Erica is an only child.” He extends a metaphorical finger and points in the correct direction. 

Mary is the metaphorical cat, and merely stares at his metaphorical finger blankly (she’s also staring blankly at his face, non-metaphorically, eggs forgotten). “Sherlock, what are you trying to tell me?”

Sherlock abandons all nuance. “Erica has slept primarily with men.”

Mary stalks over to the stool where he is perched. “Stop listing random facts about Erica! I know all this! What are you getting at?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He walks her along the path. “Not random. As a scientist and an atheist, you should have trouble with the irrational. Yet Erica, raised in a religious household -- clearly, from the high number of materteral clergy -- has probably never felt the need to rebel against the familial belief in the supernatural. Were her parents ministers, yes, but she would feel no need to rebel against her aunts, nor would she have chafed against the politics of a church that ordained women. Plus, she gave money to a religious charity during the holidays. Conclusion: friendly with religion, thoughts colored by it -- a likely source of irrationality.”

He continues, warming to his subject and picking up the pace. “Her mother is about to declare bankruptcy, and will soon be turning to others for financial help, as she will be unable to secure loans going forward. Lacking other progeny, she will focus her efforts on Erica. Erica will have to consider either housing her mother or taking a better-paying job in order to support them both. Erica will be almost certainly be less pleasant company should she be forced to dwell with her mother or give up her current job.

“Finally, as I noted, she has slept mostly with men. Bisexual women are far more likely to end up with a man than a woman.”

Mary has not stopped looking annoyed. In fact, she looks more so. “What is this, your attempt to talk me out of seeing her?”

“Yes.” Obvious.

Mary blinks several times, rapidly, her brow furrowed, and her mouth making a small O. Finally, “Why?”

“These data point to your maximizing your expected long-term happiness by spending more time with John.”

She shakes her head. “Those are just statistics.” He stares indignantly. _Just?_ “Not necessarily applicable in this situation. Besides, you don’t care about my happiness. _You’d_ be happier if I don’t see Erica.” 

At last, a reasonable inference on Mary’s part. “You can see her as a friend, just don’t have sex.”

“But I like sex.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Mary narrows hers. “I know you find sexual desire a dull motivation. I know you think it’s beneath you, that you wish it didn’t blemish your own perfectly rational thinking.” Her sneer on the last three words makes it clear that she doesn’t entirely buy into Sherlock’s rationality; he presses his lips together. “But you’d do well to remember that there’s nothing wrong with liking sex. I am a sexual being, and not only that, John is a sexual being. If you keep acting like it’s a character flaw to desire sex, John will come to resent you, eventually.”

Sherlock looks away, trying to shape a response to her observation, which is startling but not necessarily, he supposes, incorrect. Before he can, Mary speaks again. “Why don’t you want me to date her? I thought you wanted John to yourself, sometimes.”

“I do.” 

“Then I don’t understand.” 

The eggs choose that moment to protest their neglect by starting to smoke, saving Sherlock from having to formulate a response. As Mary swearingly tends to them, Sherlock leaves the room.

The conversation was less effective than he’d predicted. He will need to look for other ways to convince her not to see Erica.

* * *

Mary and John have gone out for the evening. Sherlock, who successfully spent the day avoiding them both -- and somewhat successfully avoiding thinking about them, which is a relief -- stays in. He lies on the sofa, and thinks about dust. 

It is a worthy topic for his next blog entry. People think of dust as a single thing, a uniform phenomenon, and yet the characteristics of the particles gathered on the surfaces of a setting can reveal so much about -- 

He hears the key in the lock, and can tell from the fumbling and laughter that John and Mary are drunk -- boring; makes people even more obvious than usual. Though the sign that they have overcome John’s jealousy and reconciled at least temporarily is positive. He listens to them as they trip (literally) up the stairs, scattering giggles and shushes as they go. As the upstairs door to the flat opens and they walk into the entry, Mary’s words become distinct.

“Is Sherlock out?” she asks in a low voice.

“No -- light’s on in his room.” The upstairs room. John’s room, Sherlock still thinks of it as. John sleeps there almost as much as he does. “Said he was working on an experiment up there.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s complete lack of ability to observe. Granted, the lights are out in the sitting room -- Sherlock had not noticed that the sun had set until now -- and Sherlock did say he would be working on his study of common household fungal infestations (before he became distracted by the more intriguing matter of dust), but Sherlock is noticeably in the same room as them, if either of them were to look around carefully, or to listen for his breathing. 

“Mmm, I’ve got an experiment I’d like to run on you, Doctor,” Mary responds. Sherlock tilts his head toward them, interest piqued. 

“Oh do you, Doctor?” he rumbles back at her with a tone in his voice that Sherlock has come to recognize as amorous. Sherlock expects them to proceed to the downstairs bedroom, but instead, John guides her further into the living room, nuzzling her neck as he does. “Perhaps you should run your methodology past me first.” He pauses to quickly sweep an arm across the seat of his armchair -- a lesson learned after sitting on several errant experiments -- then pushes Mary gently down into it. Sherlock watches, his eyes fully adapted to the dim light, as John kneels before Mary and pushes her skirt up to her waist.

John’s movements are so assured, so unlike his still-tentative sexual actions with Sherlock. As Mary is giggling and whispering, “Naughty,” Sherlock shifts slightly to get a better view of John pulling her underwear to the side and unhesitatingly applying his tongue.

Mary lets out a gasp. “Well, Doctor,” she says breathlessly, “I -- ” she pauses to pant, “I’d like to start with this procedure, actually -- uh, John, oh -- and I’d like to introduce a new variable -- hmm, yes -- I want to observe your reaction when Sherlock comes downstairs and sees you like this.”

Sherlock freezes. Perhaps this is the missing piece, then. The reason Mary could not be easily talked out of a sexual relationship with Erica. She values sexual adventure and diversity. She requires more than one partner. He feels a flutter, not wholly pleasant, in his gut, but ignores it.

John makes a muffled noise that sounds approving. It also sounds wet in a different way than when John’s mouth is full of Sherlock’s cock -- something they’ve only recently tried, but with very positive results -- and Sherlock wishes he could see that wetness clearly. Sherlock is surprised by John’s approval. Does John want Sherlock to watch them? Perhaps Sherlock should make his presence known and enhance their experience. Perhaps he can turn on a light and observe them more properly.

John pulls back for a moment, and Mary squirms frustratedly in the chair. “What would you do then, Doctor?” There’s a smile audible in his voice, though his face is in shadow, and a level of ragged arousal that only edges into his voice once he’s fully erect. Sherlock tries to ignore his own cock, which is nearing such a state as well.

Mary’s breath hitches as John buries his face in her once more. “I’d watch him watching you,” she breathes, and Sherlock strains to catch it. “And I’d watch you watching him, and see how red you turn.” Ah, Sherlock is not the only one who wants to run experiments on John’s blush response. Of course. Mary is also a scientist. “I’d feel your breath against me speeding up, and I’d watch your hand creep down so you could touch yourself.” John groans. Sherlock watches John’s left hand in fact move toward his trousers, and now he really wants the light on. He wants to see, also, how John would respond to his presence being known, wants to watch his face and hands, wants to see if his arousal patterns differ at all with both a female and male partner present.

But it occurs to him that if he makes Mary’s experiment a reality, he will lose this possibly much rarer opportunity to observe John having sex in Sherlock’s absence -- or presumed absence. He has always expected that sex is subject to the observer effect -- simply by being present to witness the activity, one incontrovertibly alters the dynamic. Here, though, is the counterexample, and even if the conditions are suboptimal and visual data are mostly absent, he can continue to collect auditory and other evidence.

He listens to John pull down his zip and his grunt of pleasure, muffled by Mary’s flesh, as he reaches inside his trousers. Sherlock’s own cock is aching, but he ignores it. Mary, apparently also turned on by John’s response -- or by his tongue -- grinds against John’s face with a low moan.

“Of course,” she continues, voice husky, “All of this is ridiculously improbable.” Sherlock’s desire to prove her wrong by turning on the lights wars with his desire to finish observing without making his presence known. “Because,” she cants her hips forcefully with each phrase, and John slides his free arm beneath her arse to pull her more firmly against his mouth, “If he were here, I would want to watch,” she’s panting hard, “while you fucked him.” 

John lets out a frantic noise -- a noise of nearly coming himself, but a noise with no note of protest or surprise. This is not a new thought to him. John has never suggested anal sex to Sherlock, and seemed hesitant enough initially to even touch his arse, that Sherlock had deduced he was uninterested. Incorrectly, apparently. Or perhaps John is interested in doing so primarily for Mary’s benefit? Sherlock had not accounted for the possibility that John might be more interested in performing certain sexual acts with him in Mary’s presence. He wants to follow up on this thought immediately by turning on the light and beginning to reproduce past sex acts with John in Mary’s presence to observe the difference in John’s responses. But he forces himself not to invalidate the current data gathering opportunity and stills his hand.

“I want to watch your face” -- and now she’s bucking against John’s tongue and lips, and he’s slipped his hand back out of his pants in order to steady himself with both hands against the onslaught -- “as you slide into his arse for the first time.” John is moaning with every laboured huff against her skin, and her speed increases, and then she’s bucking and writhing and biting her own hand to muffle her shout as she climaxes.

Despite the attempt to stifle her cries, if Sherlock had been upstairs, he would surely have heard that. He is, however, not. He is on the sofa, his cock demanding immediate attention, and he is on the verge of turning on the light and damning the data gathering to hell, when John stands up, pulls the still panting Mary up against him, and growls, “Bedroom. Now.” And they disappear down the hall.

Sherlock listens to the door shut, then finally, frantically reaches for his cock. He strokes only a few times before a phase transition occurs, and he collapses into a relaxed state against the sofa.

* * * 

The following morning, Sherlock comes downstairs freshly showered and dressed in the suit he knows John likes best. Mary and John are seated in their armchairs -- there are three, now, as Mary brought her own -- looking very comfortable and relaxed. Crumbs present evidence of a toasty morning snack. They are reading the paper, and show no signs of having had a sexual encounter this morning. Everything is perfect.

Sherlock walks over to John and leans down for a kiss.

“Good morning,” John says afterward, sounding surprised. It is outside the normal parameters of their routine for Sherlock to kiss him unless he is trying to either distract John or initiate sex. John has no reason to suspect that either is currently happening.

Sherlock grabs John’s shoulders and encourages him -- in a way that probably will not leave bruises -- to stand. John does, watching him with some confusion. Mary, too, is watching quizzically. Good.

Sherlock positions himself and John optimally for Mary’s viewing. He pulls John back into another kiss, and John, though clearly confused, lets him. Then Sherlock slides his hand down and rubs John’s cock through his jeans.

John is capable of jumping backward with remarkable speed, agility and distance. (Sherlock makes a note to further study John’s startle reflexes in the future.) “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” John says, looking angry. Mary merely watches with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m attempting to induce arousal,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, got that.” John still looks irritated. “Why?”

Sherlock deepens his voice and lowers his volume, conscious of the usual helpful effect on John of doing so. "I am trying to prepare you so that you can fuck me."

Alarm has joined the mix of emotions on John's face. (Mary's eyebrow creeps higher.) "Sherlock! Mary is right here!"

"That," Sherlock says with impressive patience for John's feeble thought processes, "is precisely the point. You wish to engage in penetrative sex. She wishes to watch. I am amenable."

Mary, standing also, is next to speak, as John spends the next few seconds sputtering. "Sherlock, were you listening to us last night?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, eyes still fixed on John.

"From where?"

"Irrelevant."

"Really not," John chips in.

"Sofa."

Together, horrified: "Sherlock!" 

“You wanted me to watch,” he reminds them.

“No,” Mary says sharply, “we wanted to _talk about_ what it might be like to have you watch.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, filing away this heretofore unknown distinction for future consideration.

“Hang on,” John says, “were you there the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t feel the need to tell us?”

“No.”

“That’s not on, Sherlock.” John is bright red now, but not in an embarrassed way so much as a furious way.

“I didn’t realize it would anger you.”

“You didn’t realize spying on us would anger us?” Mary says, incredulous.

“How can you be so dim about some things,” John asks, “when you’re the most brilliant man alive?”

Sherlock feels a simultaneous flush of pleasure and anger at John’s question. He had thought he was initiating something that they would find enjoyable; its unfair to be repaid in insults -- even one couched in a compliment. 

When he fails to respond, Mary speaks again. “Let’s make this simple,” she says, “to avoid future misunderstandings. You have to be honest -- and that includes no omissions. You have to tell us when you’re in the room with us. And you have to tell us your plans -- the ones that involve us -- before putting them into action.”

Sherlock snorts. “You only think you want that.”

“Why?” John asks, glaring. “Because your thoughts are too complex for our simple brains?”

He rolls his eyes. “People don’t truly want to know what’s going on in one another’s heads. Sharing thoughts never goes well.”

“Yes, but we’re in relationships,” Mary says firmly. “All of us are, really, now that we’re living together. And sharing is part of how that works.”

“Yes.” John agrees emphatically. 

“No.” He knows he is right.

“Well, I’m not willing to live with you unless you agree,” Mary says firmly. 

“Yes,” John says again.

“You think you’ll be happy if I tell you?” Sherlock sneers. “That you want to know everything? You’re wrong.” He looks at Mary. “Are you happier knowing that John was so jealous while you were off having fun with Erica last night that he was too distracted to even have sex?” Turning to John: “Do you wish to know that Mary is the reason your gun is missing? Do either of you really want to know that the reason you were forced to move from your old building is that I bought the place?” He throws his hands up in the air. “No! Nobody is happier knowing these things! It is _not_ better to share!”

He is immediately empirically proven correct, though it is less satisfying than he would hope. Both of them just blink at him for a long moment, looking rather shell-shocked. John’s brow furrows as he processes these statements, and he gets an I’m-about-to-yell look about him. Before he can, Mary turns to John. “You told me there was no jealousy issue to talk about.” Her voice is quiet, dangerous.

John’s swallows tightly around clenched teeth. “Yeah, well. At least that’s not a life or death matter. You didn’t tell me that you took my gun. And you.” He turns to Sherlock, swallows, shakes his head. Then he leaves.

Mary stares at Sherlock for a long moment. “Relationships are not just about being right, you know. And honesty is a necessary but not sufficient condition for my wanting to live with you. You might want to think about what else is lacking.” With that, she leaves as well.

Sherlock flops onto the sofa and stares at the ceiling. He remembers another door closing, and he worries.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock spends the whole day thinking about it. It’s insufficient to do as he’s been asked. But why is it? It must have to do with one of the things he doesn’t pay attention to. Something unimportant. 

Mostly, he thinks from his customary position, on the sofa. Periodically, he gets up to pace around and throw things. It’s less satisfying than shooting the wall, but not so bad. (“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson tuts at one point. “Such a mess!” She bustles around and sweeps up the shards of ceramic that used to be their plates and mugs, all the while insisting she’s not their housekeeper and asking what he’s done now. Busy thinking, he ignores her.)

When he arrives at an answer and reaches for his phone, it’s disappointing to find that there is already a text waiting. 

“Coming back to the flat to talk. 8 PM.” It’s sent from John’s phone and unnecessarily signed “MM & JW”. John would type 221B; would not capitalize PM. And obviously, though she typed it, Mary sent it with John’s knowledge -- John left with his phone in his inside jacket pocket, and Mary has no talent at pickpocketing or misdirection (shame; useful skills). 

He is waiting for them when they arrive, fresh from eating dinner -- together. They’ve patched things up, then. It is to be them against him. He watches as they unwrap and hang up their outerwear and take a seat in the armchairs near his. Then he speaks.

“You want me to be nice. I am not nice, nor kind. You can have honesty, or you can have superficial pleasantness. But you cannot have both. I have spent the day thinking about it, and if one of these alone is insufficient, I cannot see how to proceed.”

John blinks. Mary replies first. “I won’t speak for John, but I don’t want ‘nice’, actually. What I want is for you to treat this relationship as a collaboration, rather than a competition, or something for you to orchestrate and manipulate. When we disagree, it shouldn’t be a contest to see who is right at the cost of everything else.” John stays silent, but frowns.

Sherlock stares at her. “Why isn’t it about being right? You wish to build a relationship around being wrong?”

Mary sighs. “No. I want to work together to decide what’s right. I want you to share data with us. And not save up facts to use as weapons.” 

“I’ve never lied to you,” Sherlock says. He’s never had a need thus far.

“Well, no,” Mary says, “but you have omitted information.” 

“I’ve communicated everything I thought was important for you to know.” 

“That’s not enough.” Mary says. 

“How am I to know what’s considered important inside your funny little heads?” 

“Simulate telling us,” Mary says. “If we’ll be surprised by the information or want to know the information in over 25% of your simulations, then you need to tell us in real life.” John stops glaring at Sherlock long enough to shoot her a look of admiration.

Sherlock considers. It’s doable. “Why? Sometimes you’re happier not knowing, in every simulation.”

Mary answers. “That’s not the point. The point is that in a relationship, you have to share important information.”

“That’s not how most relationships work.” Sherlock is fairly certain, given the number of adultery cases he’s witnessed. Plus, he knows for a fact John has kept a number of things from past partners -- he has been present for some of John’s lies, and indirectly responsible for even more. 

Mary looks him in the eye -- unlike John, who has been looking at the walls, his hands, the window, anywhere but Sherlock. “No, you’re right. But most relationships end. I don’t want this one to.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I think you’ll find, empirically, that relationships often last longer when people don’t know everything about one another.”

Mary presses her lips together. “Nevertheless, that’s not an option here.”

“Why --”

“You are the world’s biggest idiot.” John is finally looking at him, dangerously calm. “What part of ‘I nearly killed myself because you lied to me about being dead’ made you think that keeping things from me was ever going to be a good idea?”

Sherlock blinks. He opens his mouth a little, but finds he has nothing to say and shuts it again.

“I need honesty. I need to know that I can trust you to tell me what’s going on. I need to know that I won’t wake up years from now to find some other hideous secret that you’ve been hiding from me all that time.” He shakes his head, once, sharply. “I really can’t believe I have to tell you any of this. But if you don’t get it. If you keep arguing. I am going to leave. And I won’t come back. Not even as a friend. I survived your lies once, but I am never doing that again.”

Sherlock feels paralyzed. He thinks about the previous separation, the years apart from John. His throat tightens again at the threat of loss. And how did he not see that? The path from John’s mourning to his anger is now clear. He should have anticipated. Should have seen. Should have thought.

He swallows. John will not be happy with honesty. Even if he thinks he will. He and Mary were angry at the truth as well as the lies. And even if he’s come back, he’ll leave again. But he may stay longer.

Sherlock nods, finally. “I promise.”

John lets out a long breath, shoulders falling. “Right. Good. Good.” 

“Thank you.” Mary says quietly.

“Yes,” John says. Then, “I think I need a drink. Possibly a lot of drinks.” As he gets up, he warns, “We’re not done talking. We’re not going to be done talking until we’re all caught up. No more secrets.” Mary nods agreement.

John returns and hands out glasses of scotch. Then he eyes his own glass, downs it in a single gulp, and pours himself another. “Right. Who’s going first?”

Mary laughs a little. “It feels a bit like a drinking game, at this point.” She downs her own glass and reaches for the bottle as well. 

“Or like playing ‘Truth or dare’,” John says, smiling wryly. Sherlock stares at him blankly, and John rolls his eyes. “Did you delete ‘Truth or dare’?”

Mary snorts. “We could never play that, because you two would only ever choose ‘dare.’” Sherlock thinks this is likely to be true, even lacking a full understanding of the game. Then she takes a deep breath. “Okay, then. I’ll start. With the gun.” 

Clearly from John’s lack of tension, they’ve already discussed this somewhat, and this is partly for Sherlock’s benefit. Still, she’s talking to John. “Like I told you, I didn’t get rid of it. I just put it into storage during the move. And I was planning to talk to you about it immediately. But then we were busy, and I kept getting distracted and… I just didn’t. I’m sorry, John.”

John frowns. “Okay, yeah, you did tell me that. But why did you move it at all?”

She shrugs uncomfortably. “I told you before, when we moved into the last place, that I wasn’t comfortable having it around.”

“Actually,” John says slowly, “as I recall, you told me about gun death statistics. I didn’t take that to mean that you didn’t trust me with it.”

“I do trust you. Not sure about Sherlock, given the wall,” Sherlock rolls his eyes; the wall demonstrates his excellent aim and care when firing. “But it’s not about you. I just feel so uneasy, having it there. And I feel like we shouldn’t have guests over with it in the flat -- especially guests with children.”

John nods. “All right. That’s fair. But you realize that I count on having it at the ready? That people shoot at us sometimes?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been there, even. I still...” she swallows. “I still don’t want it here. But maybe you need it here more than I need it not to be.”

“What if I get a lockbox?” John asks. 

She brightens. “Oh! Would you? I brought them up, once, before, and you seemed against them.”

John shrugs. “It’s not as convenient. But if it’s that important to you, then it’s fine. And you’re not wrong about having guests.”

Mary squeezes his hand. Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it sooner.”

John nods and squeezes her hand back. Then he takes another sip of his scotch. “Right. I guess it’s my turn, then.” He addresses Mary once more. “Like I said before, I thought -- I thought I could control my jealousy about Erica, and that it wouldn’t hurt you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Sherlock wonders why John is not addressing him, as well. Perhaps he is not supposed to be troubled by John’s emotions regarding Mary. Perhaps that is another way in which he is not normal.

Mary nods. “Jealousy is hard,” she says. “I have trouble, too, you know.” 

“What, you get jealous?” John’s eyebrows raise, mingling with his hairline.

Mary smiles slightly. “Yes. I guess I haven’t talked about it enough, myself. But I almost didn’t want to move in here with the two of you, you know.”

“What?” John stares. “But you said you wanted to.”

“I did -- I wanted to try. But I was a bit worried about what it would be like to live with the two of you, to watch you be so intimate all the time. I thought perhaps I’d have a hard time dealing with my jealousy.”

John shakes his head. “That’s hard for me to believe.”

“I don’t know why. You’re the legendary dynamic duo, and I spent a year listening to you talk about little else besides Sherlock. How did you think I wouldn’t be at least a bit jealous?”

“I, I don’t know. You’re so rational. And you encouraged me to see him.”

“Oh. Well. Just because I’m jealous about something doesn’t mean I want you to stop. I want you to be happy.” 

John blinks. “Are you still jealous?” he asks hesitantly.

“Not so much,” she says. “Otherwise I would have been talking more about it with you, you can be sure. Living with Sherlock has made him more human. I can see how good you are together, but also how he makes you mad, how your relationship isn’t perfect.” Sherlock bristles a bit, mostly at being called human. But John smiles. 

“Good,” he says. “Good.” 

“John,” Sherlock begins uncertainly.

“Spotted that, did you?” John says. “That Mary was the one advocating for us to move in here? Yeah. I was the one who wasn’t sure we should take you up on your offer to live together.” Sherlock tries not to look hurt. “Not because I didn’t want to,” John continues. “But because... I don’t rightly know, actually. I felt so good about being with each of you, separately. I felt like I knew how to be with each of you. But I wasn’t sure I could be with you together.”

Sherlock considers this. “You derive pleasure from caretaking,” he notes. “And from devoting your full attention to a partner. Possibly leading to conflicting constraints, with multiple partners present.” 

John nods. “Especially when at least one of the partners is a demanding git.” His lip quirks. “It’s been better than I thought it might, though. It’s been really nice, actually. But I wish you’d let us make the decision ourselves, instead of forcing us into it by buying the old place.”

Sherlock nods. He still thinks that could have worked fine if he just hadn’t told them about it. But he can also imagine John’s white hot anger if he had found out, somehow. 

“Your turn, Sherlock,” says Mary, finally. She’s a bit flushed and sounds like she’s focusing a bit harder than usual on enunciating. “Tell us something honest.”

“Yes, truth or dare?” John mumbles with a smile.

He balks, still. “The tapioca plant contains a rather impressive concentration of cyanide,” he offers, finally.

“Sherlock,” John admonishes. 

“Neither of you knew that, did you? I certainly haven’t told you previously.”

“How about something about you,” John says.

“I was composing an essay about types of dust last night when you entered the flat,” Sherlock says.

“Ooh!” says Mary a the same time that John says, “Nobody will read that.” Sherlock smiles superiorly at John.

“So, about last night, then. Were you turned on?” Mary asks.

He looks at her, unblinking. “I was aroused, yes.”

Mary nods. “I really wish you hadn’t done that -- watched without us knowing. But I must admit that I’m a bit turned on by the fact that you did.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

John is pink. “Sorry to disappoint you both, but I don’t actually think I want to have sex with one of you while the other one watches.”

Mary shrugs. “It’s fine. I told you, it was a fantasy.” She doesn’t explicitly state disinterest, though, Sherlock notes.

“It was not a fantasy of mine, however,” he informs John. “I didn’t initiate sex in front of Mary for my own benefit, or for yours.”

“You did it for me?” Mary asks, a bit disbelieving.

Sherlock nods. “I was demonstrating that you need not turn to Erica for sexual adventure or diversity.”

“Oh. Obviously.” Mary’s mouth twists into a half-smile, even as she rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t seeing her for sexual adventure, you idiot. I was dating her because I’ve been desperately envious of John getting to date his best friend, and I had the wild hope that maybe I could have the same.” John makes a soft noise of sympathy. “All of which I would have told you, if you’d stuck around yesterday instead of trying to talk me out of seeing her and then fleeing while I was distracted by eggs.”

Sherlock blinks, assimilating this data. “Oh.” A threesome was the wrong answer, then. 

“Wait, you were trying to get Mary to stop seeing Erica?” John asks.

“Yes, do try to keep up, John.” Clearly, another hole in Mary’s own communication.

“Why?” John asks. Then he answers his own question. “You didn’t like my being so distracted from you.” His lip twists. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nods. Then he acknowledges that that is not the whole story. “I didn’t like watching you be upset, either. It was distracting. It’s always distracting when you’re unhappy.”

John looks stricken. “I’m sorry. It was just what I feared might happen -- and I didn’t even notice, I was doing it, really. I thought you actually wanted that case solved… of course you did, but of course you also wanted my full attention. I’m so sorry,” he repeats. Sherlock nods. John bites his lip. ”But I’m not sure how to stop being jealous. I’m worried I can’t be.”

It’s Mary’s turn to make a sympathetic noise. “Being jealous is okay. And it gets less distracting -- less intense -- over time, usually. I can maybe help, if you’ll let me.”

“What helps you?”

“Time, partly. Having the other person take things a bit slow, sometimes. But mostly being able to ask lots of questions.” She smiles. “Do you have questions?”

John scrubs a hand through his hair. “Just one, mostly. Why would you want to keep having sex with a bloke like me, when you could have her?” 

Mary laughs. “Why would you want to keep having sex with me, when you can have Sherlock?” A reasonable question, so far as Sherlock is concerned. 

“Because you’re you, and he’s him.” John spouts tautologies and Mary nods as if they contained information. “Because you’re amazing. And I need you.”

“You’re amazing, too,” Mary says quietly. “And I think you strongly underestimate your appeal as a sexual partner, if you think I’d give you up.”

“But…” John says weakly, “I don’t have breasts.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock says vehemently. John and Mary both laugh, and the tension lessens.

“I’m not going to stop seeing Erica,” Mary says. “But we could go slower. Give you more time to get used to it.”

John considers. “No,” he says slowly. “Actually, I feel a bit better, I think, just for you having said that. And for what you said, before. I didn’t realize you were envious of me and Sherlock, but… yeah. I can see why you’d want that. I’m very lucky to have you both.” Mary nods and smiles. “And Erica is good -- I like her. Besides, I’ll feel better if you have someone to spend time with. When I’m, erm. Spending time with Sherlock. Which I’d like to do. Soon.” He looks at Sherlock and licks his lips and also blushes. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the euphemism, but he is pleased that John is thinking about it. 

“I guess…” John continues, looking down at his hands. “I guess the other reason I didn’t tell you about being jealous was that I was afraid. I am afraid. That I’ll keep being jealous and distracted, and you’ll lose patience with me. That you’ll leave, because I’m not good at sharing, or at being shared between you, either. I worry about that, with both of you.” That, Sherlock entirely understands. That, to Sherlock, seems like good reasoning, entirely rational.

Mary grabs one of his hands. “I won’t leave you. I promise. Not as long as we’re talking. And if I’m finding something difficult or frustrating, I’ll tell you. And we’ll work something out.” 

John nods and squeezes back. “Thank you.” Then he looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks when he realizes John is hoping for a similar declaration. “You know nothing, John.”

John smiles weakly. “You’ve told me that one before.”

“That you fear I would leave you is ludicrous. I will stay, so long as you want me.” 

Mary gives him an odd look, but John nods. “Thank you.” 

After a long pause, Mary says, “Right. Does anyone else have any other secrets, then? Now’s the time to tell them. No penalties.”

“Sherlock?” John smiles encouragingly.

Sherlock considers. “Barring facts that my simulations tell me you are unlikely to find interesting, I do think you know everything now.” It’s true, aside from the things that happened during his time away. The two years that he doesn’t want to bring up again, doesn’t want John to think about, doesn’t want to think about himself. “I watched you have sex. I bought your old building because you were taking too long to decide to move in with me. Oh, and I used the last of the milk for an experiment, even though your note said not to.” 

“Sherlock,” John says, but it’s soft, affectionate. Sherlock relaxes a touch.

“What is it that you’re afraid of, though?” Mary asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.

Sherlock just looks at her. Underspecified question. 

“You’re convinced that being honest won’t end well -- that you’ll lose John -- aren’t you? Why?”

John stares at her appreciatively. Then he turns to Sherlock. “You can tell me, whatever it is. There’s nothing too dark, so long as you’re willing to share it. I promise.”

Sherlock frowns. “How melodramatic, John. You know the darkest things about me -- you’ve known them since the beginning. I keep bits of cadavers in the crisper. I have a history of drug use. I play the violin and don’t talk, and I insult you.” It’s true, again, barring the years that he was away. The years that don’t count.

John smiles a bit, but shakes his head. “And still, I haven’t left. What, then?”

Sherlock shrugs. How can he explain the certainty that, sooner or later, John will find out something he can’t handle after all?

Mary is still watching him thoughtfully. “Have you had a relationship before?”

“No,” John says. “I’m his first.”

“Not sex,” Mary says. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Sherlock stares back at her, pondering what she and John would consider to be encompassed by the term relationship, and how she knew to ask. He can see, once again, why John likes her. She’s merely above average in most areas -- like John. But she has extraordinary intuitions regarding the subtler human emotions and a kindness to match. It unnerves him, a bit. But it could be -- has been, might be again -- very useful for The Work, and also good for John. Finally, in response to her question, he says, “I thought I did, once.”

“Tell us about him?” She asks, gently. John just blinks in surprise and stares at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock sits still for a long time. Finally, he picks up the glass by the table and takes his first gulp. “Victor was… exceptional. We met in university. His dog bit me. He was a chemist. We studied together.”

He runs out of easy facts. Eventually Mary prompts, “What happened?” 

Sherlock finishes his drink. “I kept things from him,” Sherlock says. “And then I stopped.”

 

* * *

“You said you’d study chemistry with me today,” Victor said, wheedlingly, from the door of his flat. And Sherlock had said so. Because Sherlock could not get enough of Victor; his cleverness and his admiration were a heady pairing, one which Sherlock had come to crave. And from the way Victor kept asking to study with him, kept staying up nights discussing science and music, Sherlock thought he might feel the same.

Sherlock was not precisely sure what it was that he and Victor were to one another. But he knew what he wanted to be. For weeks, he’d teetered on the edge of saying something, but had hesitated, always.

Still, at the moment, he was immune to Victor’s charms. “Can’t. Busy.” He hadn’t paused in his pacing.

“I can see that,” Victor said, walking in and looking around. “There’s paper everywhere. This is, what, newspaper articles? Maps... an almanac, notebooks.... Sherlock, what is all this? What are you doing?”

He’d finally stopped walking -- but not vibrating with energy -- turning to face Victor. He’d felt an enormous grin crawling across his face as he clapped his hands with delight. “The police are wrong.”

“Are you… are you high?” Victor asked.

“Irrelevant.” 

“No, it’s not -- what did you take?”

“Don’t trouble yourself; it helps me think.”

“What is it -- speed?” 

Sherlock ignored the question; boring. “This case, Victor! This case, is brilliant.” He rattled off the details -- first, the case as it had been laid out during the past weeks in the newspaper, as the police remained baffled. Second, everything they’d missed, though it was right in front of them. Third, the solution.

“Amazing. It’s not the case that’s brilliant; you are,” Victor said, causing warmth to flood through Sherlock’s entire body, his pulse jumping. Victor still looked troubled, but admiration was winning the battle for his face. “You figured that all out on your own -- without talking to the police?”

“Talking is unnecessary. The police are clearly useless -- they’re on the wrong trail entirely. All I need is my brain.”

“And drugs,” Victor said, his mouth turning down again.

“I don’t need them. I just make use of them. They’re a tool.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Victor murmured, stepping closer.

Sherlock was about to explain why this was irrational. But seeing the look in Victor’s eyes -- the deep regard for him, the emotion -- he was suddenly certain. Victor felt it, too; it was just up to Sherlock to express the sentiment explicitly. This, this was the simplest solution to the evidence right in front of him. He stepped forward, grabbed Victor by the face, and kissed him.

Victor pulled back abruptly and slammed his fist into Sherlock’s cheek. Then he started swearing and backing away. A glass from a nearby table, swept off by his hand, shattered on the floor. Neither of them looked at it.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, Sherlock, are you all right? Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -- but you -- I can’t. With the, the, that, and I’m not -- I can’t.” He reached the door, and Sherlock watched Victor leave his room for the last time. 

* * *

John and Mary are silent for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” John says, finally. “Is that why you haven’t dated anyone? Since?”

Sherlock shrugs. “People are boring. Far more boring than The Work, generally. I have rarely felt desire.”

John he gets up, walks over to Sherlock, and pulls him to a standing position. He looks up at him, cupping his face. “Still. I’m sorry that went so badly. And I’m sorry you’ve found it so hard to find people who want to be close to you. You’re amazing, and they don’t know what they’re missing out on.” John stares straight into his eyes. “And I’m not Victor.”

“I know,” Sherlock says.

“You know, but maybe you don’t believe. You cared about Victor, and he left you. But he left you at the beginning. If you think I’m going to leave you -- if you think you can make me leave because of something you say -- if you think that after all we’ve been through together… Well.” He licks his lips. “Sometimes you’re not such a genius after all.” He softens it with a smile. “I love you, you git. Do you hear me? I might get angry -- I will get angry -- but I love you, and I’m not going to leave. So long as you talk to me. To us.”

Sherlock nods slowly, a tightness in his chest releasing just a little. John is not Victor. John is so much more. And Sherlock finds that he trusts John’s promise. Mostly. Trust is not something he is accustomed to, generally. But he hopes he might become so.

John rewards him for his agreement with a kiss. “Thank you,” he says softly, stepping back. 

“Yes,” Mary echoes, “thank you for telling us about Victor, Sherlock. And for trusting us. And I know you’re not so worried about losing me, but I won’t leave, either, not if -- ”

“You do yourself a disservice,” Sherlock interrupts. “You think I only tolerate you because John needs you.” Mary tilts her head. “It is true that you make John’s life much better, and that he would be devastated without you. And at first that was why I did not chase you off.” Mary looks amused, John mildly indignant. “But,” he pauses for a moment, then continues. “I find myself surprisingly pleased by your presence in the flat, when you are here. I value your input. And I hope, perhaps, that you consider me a friend.”

Mary smiles. “Yes. Absolutely. I hope you do, as well.”

Sherlock nods. Mary stands and slowly moves toward him, giving him time to back away. When he doesn’t she presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“Sentiment,” John says, smiling faintly. Sherlock smiles back, and feels something that might be hope.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock becomes aware that John is sitting next to him on the sofa. John is thinking about saying something that makes him uncomfortable -- something about emotions or relationships or sex. Sherlock waits and continues staring at the laptop.

“You would do anything I asked you to,” John says, finally. “Wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock keeps staring at the laptop screen, which seems to make it easier for John to talk. “Don’t be ridiculous. How many times have you asked me to clean up after myself?”

John snorts. “But if I told you I’d leave if you didn’t do it?” 

“Yes, I’d probably clean the flat then.”

John smiles briefly, then sobers. “I was just thinking that you only agreed the other day. To being honest. Because you thought you had no choice.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.” 

John shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t want you to do it under duress.”

Sherlock sighs, setting the laptop aside and turning to face John. “You can make me do something. You cannot make me want to do it.” John frowns. “You convinced me it is worth trying, however. I can see now how much I hurt you by keeping secrets, before. I don’t want you to fear what I’m keeping from you again.”

John nods. “Thank you. And you know…” He hesitates. “It doesn’t have to be a one-way street. You could benefit from this, too.”

“How?”

“I could tell you things … things about what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.” John’s voice goes softer, deeper.

Sherlock scoffs. “I don’t need you to tell me anything. I can figure out anything important myself.”

John doesn’t bother trying to hide a smile. “This from the man who couldn’t tell that the conversation he overheard the other night was a fantasy and not an actual desire? The man who didn’t know I wanted to kiss him?”

Sherlock scowls. All right. Human emotions -- the subtler ones, the ones that don’t erupt in a bright sudden flash of anger, lust, envy; the ones that are more simmering than sinful; the ones that don’t tend to immediately precede crimes -- are not Sherlock’s strongest point.

“What am I thinking now, then?” John says teasingly.

Sherlock studies him. The first bit is easy. “You’re thinking about how Mary is out with Erica, wondering if I noticed when she left, or if I was too absorbed in my own thoughts.” 

“Mm, that’s part of it.” John smiles. “What else?”

“You’re not as jealous this time. Even though I just brought up Erica, your fist is not clenching, your facial muscles are thirty percent more relaxed, on average.”

John temporarily refutes this by smiling wider. “Fantastic. And?” 

“You’re thinking about Mary and Erica having sex, and how you’d like to watch that.” He doesn’t have direct evidence for this, but there’s a high prior probability of John thinking about sex at any given time, and judging from his recent browser history, he’s been spending a lot of time lately thinking about two women having sex.

John laughs. “Well, okay, I am now. What else?”

Sherlock stares at him. John is an open book in many ways. You can read him in the clench of his hands and the tilt of his chin, in way he licks his lips, in the length of his stride. And yet. And yet there is so much to him, so many levels, many of them subtle. What exactly John thinks as he looks at Sherlock, that is much harder to puzzle out than a crime scene. 

“You’re thinking you’d like to take me to bed,” he hazards, finally. He hopes it’s true, or that if it wasn’t true before that he can make it be true by saying so.

John smiles. “Yes. Well, specifically, right now, I’m thinking about kissing you.” Sherlock expects him to lean forward at this point, to initiate, but he doesn’t. His voice lowers, and he says, “I’m thinking about how you respond when I bite your lower lip. About the first time I tried that, just gently. How your eyes widened, and you quivered beneath me. But I think it was that gasp you made that went straight to my cock.”

Sherlock finds that he is biting his own lower lip just a little, listening to John describe this. John has never talked to him like this before. He stops, and he takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. He kisses him, gently, at first, then taking Sherlock’s lip between his teeth and biting. Sherlock does indeed gasp. 

It’s Sherlock who leans back first. “Keep talking,” he orders John.

John laughs a bit breathlessly. “Oh. You like that, do you?” 

Sherlock nods. “Everything. Tell me everything.”

John raises his eyebrows and contemplates Sherlock, licking his lips. “All right. Well. I’m thinking about how kissing you is different from kissing women. Kissing everyone is different. But kissing you is more different. Even when you’ve just shaved, your skin is rougher. I wouldn’t have thought I’d like that, but I do.” Sherlock nods but otherwise doesn’t move, frozen in place by this flow of new data. 

“But mostly,” John continues, “kissing you is different from kissing anyone, because you’re so scientific about it. I can feel you trying different techniques, then repeating them, measuring my reactions, learning what I like. I can hear the gears turning, as we kiss. I might have thought that was unsexy, once -- someone who couldn’t stop thinking and just feel. But it’s not. Not at all. I love being observed by you. It’s so very… it’s very you. I love it. And I love even more when you become so turned on that you give up on being scientific, you lose control and moan and thrash. I love the moments when I make your brain turn off.”

Sherlock is nearly breathless now, with arousal, and with the effort of assimilating it all. Their previous sexual encounters replay in his mind, surrounding him, reanalyzed with this new data in mind. He nods for John to continue. 

John instead moves closer for another long kiss, and Sherlock wants to protest the lack of words for a moment, but then he doesn’t. He feels the roughness of their cheeks and lips -- a great deal of roughness on his part, as he has neglected to shave since he last awoke, more than 36 hours ago. John straddles Sherlock’s legs on the sofa and kisses him aggressively, no longer hesitant and shy about their bodies as he was a few short weeks ago.

“I’m also thinking about the other night,” John continues, releasing Sherlock’s face. “I’m wondering what you thought about what we were saying, aside from that you thought you should do it for Mary. I mean, you said you were turned on. But. Well.” Suddenly awkward, he licks his lips, shifts his weight back onto his heels, though he’s still astride Sherlock’s thighs. “I want you to know that I don’t need that. The, the.” He glances away and clears his throat. “I mean, I’ve been very happy with the sex that we’ve been having. More than happy. I hope you know that. The, the rest, well… It’s more just, well, a nice visual fantasy sometimes, I suppose. So it’s fine, if you don’t want that. Even though you said you would the other day, in front of Mary -- I’m not holding you to it. It’s not important to me.”

Sherlock observes his lapful of awkward John for a while, contemplating what experimental conditions would be necessary to cause John to stop circumlocuting around the phrase “anal sex.” Finally, John looks back up at him from under his brow. “Do you want to? I mean, like I said, it’s fine. If you don’t. Of course it’s fine. I just want. I want to know what you like. What turns you on. I want to do whatever makes you feel good.” His eyebrows raise, a thought occurring to him. “I didn’t mean to imply that we’d have to do it that way, either … I mean, if you wanted… I mean, I’ve never… I don’t know if you’d like… but if for instance you wanted to try that sometime, but the other way ‘round…” He takes a deep breath. “Well, I guess that would probably be fine, too. At least to try. With sufficient preparation. Christ.” He scrubs his hands through his hair. Then he huffs the shortest possible laugh. “You could say something, you know.” 

Sherlock’s lip quirks upward. “Come to bed, John,” he says.

They make it up the stairs punctuated by a string of kisses -- tender-with-teeth, the best kind -- but no words. Sherlock thinks regretfully that perhaps the talking is over, but as they both start to undo their buttons, John speaks again.

“It’s kind of amazing how much I love watching you undress, considering how much of you I’d already seen before we started dating. You were never very shy about wandering around in very little.” John smiles and forgets his own undressing for the moment, just watching appreciatively. Sherlock winces slightly as he strips off his own shirt and an old wrist injury twinges in the process; he did not come back from the time away entirely unscathed. 

“I remember at the palace,” John continues as Sherlock undoes his flies. “You, just in a sheet -- and I caught my first glimpse of your arse when Mycroft stepped on the edge of it. I was so irritated that I didn’t get to see more. I chalked it up to wanting to see you humiliated, but honestly, I think I’ve just always liked your arse.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and slowly removes his trousers and pants, feeling John’s eyes upon him. “How much more do you think you’ll like it from the inside?” he asks.

“Oh,” John inhales. “I -- you -- do you want…?”

Fully naked, Sherlock walks over and shoves John, still clothed, down on the bed. He lies down atop John, stilling his attempt to unbutton shirt, pinning his arms by his sides. Under the full focus of John’s attention -- whose admiration has always pleased Sherlock, but from this position drives him nearly to be unable to think, and who would have ever thought he would find that desirable? -- he speaks quietly. 

“I am still collecting data about what I enjoy and do not enjoy. There is much that I cannot yet conclude. What I do know is that you make me want to continue collecting a great deal more data.” Sherlock runs his fingertips along John’s neck, feeling the movement as John swallows, watching the expansion of his pupils and feeling John’s erection pressing against his own. 

“I want to touch and feel and taste and sample and thoroughly observe every part of you,” he continues. “And I want to experience you doing the same to me. I want to understand the way each part of your body fits together -- and how they shift to fit with my own. I want to measure every observable aspect of your responses. There is nothing about you that I do not want to know. I don’t know yet which things will turn me on, which acts I shall want to repeat. But yes, I want to feel you inside of me.” John sucks in a breath. “And I want you to keep on telling me every aspect of what you are thinking as you penetrate me.” 

The air exits John’s lungs in a rush; Sherlock feels his chest lowering beneath Sherlock’s own. He fights the momentary impulse to exert more force, to watch John’s responses as he struggles for air. Not now. “That,” John says slowly, “is a bit terrifying. And,” his tongue once again traces a quick path between his lips, “disturbingly hot.”

Sherlock rolls off of John and onto his back, pulling John on top of him. Their positions reversed, he grinds his hips slowly against John’s. “Fuck me,” he says deliberately.

“Nnngh,” John says eloquently, and leans down for a kiss, fierce and messy. He kisses mouth-cheek-ear-neck. He uses lips-tongue-teeth. He leaves marks. Sherlock shivers.

“Right, hang on,” John says breathlessly, pulling back. He rolls to the side and scrambles out of his clothes remarkably fast. Then he reaches into the bedside table and pulls out lube.

Sherlock lies on his back and watches John. He bends his knees and spreads them, making his arse more easily accessible. John kneels between his legs. “This might go easiest for you,” he says, flipping the tube over and spreading some on his fingers, “if I suck your cock while I get you ready.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Right,” John says wryly. “That would interfere with my narration, I suppose.”

That’s not the only reason. “Too distracting.”

“Ah, you want to concentrate on the new sensation. No handjob then, either?” Decisive head shake. “All right. Well, that will make it easier for me, too, I suppose.”

John reaches down past Sherlock’s prick, reaches further back and _oh_. His slick finger presses gently at Sherlock’s entrance, just barely there. Sherlock tenses, unable to help himself. “You’re going to want to bear down, eventually. Once I start pushing in,” John tells him. He doesn’t exert pressure, though. He just moves back and forth just a little, and Sherlock takes in the sensation. Sensitive. Not unpleasant.

John colors slightly. He says a bit sheepishly, “I’m thinking that every other time I’ve done this with a man, it’s been for medical purposes. And not very sexy at all.”

Sherlock tilts his head, having caught the specification. “You’ve done it with a woman. For sexual purposes.”

John nods. “I had a girlfriend back at university who really liked this. We did this a few times.”

Only a few. ”You broke up quickly. She ended it.”

“Oh, shush. I thought was supposed to be the one telling you things.” He’s smiling. 

“Tell me, then,” Sherlock breathes, feeling John’s finger continuing to tease his entrance and hoping that he starts to do more soon. He wriggles impatiently.

“She preferred anal sex to just about everything else, when we had the time for it. It surprised me; I’d thought it must always be the bloke who wanted it, until I met her.” His eyes watch Sherlock, gauging his reaction. “It was so fucking hot. We’d get ready, lots of lube, and I’d finger her a bit, and then I’d push into her slowly -- so slowly -- and she’d beg for it. Just beg.” He shivers, and Sherlock shivers, too, hearing John speak of what arouses him. “She liked to be on her hands and knees, and her arse was -- mmm. Beautiful. I liked the view, and the way she begged for it, even more than I liked the sensation. But the feeling was.” He swallows. “Good.”

John starts pushing in, finally, as he says this, watching Sherlock’s face carefully. Sherlock is ready for it -- so ready -- but it still feels strange.

“All right?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “I’m in about a centimeter,” he informs him, and Sherlock is grateful for the metric to accompany the foreign sensation. John keeps pushing, slowly, and says, “Mmm, you feel amazing.”

John breaks eye contact for just a moment to glance down. His breathing goes a bit ragged.  
“Oh, god. And now I’m thinking how fucking hot it is to see my finger buried two knuckles deep in your arse.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches at the words, and at the way John’s voice becomes a near growl around them. John’s eyes widen as he pushes in deeper, and then he curves his finger a bit, and -- _ohhhhhhhhhh_. 

“Mmm, what a noise,” John breathes, and Sherlock wasn’t aware he was made it out loud. He wasn’t aware of anything except the sudden acute sensation within -- a confusing mix of discomfort and his bladder suddenly signalling that it needs release and pleasure, different from any kind he has experienced before. The only thing the sensations have in common is intensity.

“Oh, God. You. I. That’s so fucking hot.” It should be repetitive by now, that phrase, but Sherlock just wants to hear him keep saying it. He feels like he has short-circuited John’s brain, dug down to the primal phrases that he can’t help let loose, along with groans and grunts of arousal. Sherlock realizes then dimly that many of those noises, particularly the neediest ones, are his own.

Sherlock’s thoughts stutter and fail as John moves his finger back and forth, quirking it again and again. With each motion, the discomfort grows less and the pleasure becomes more all-consuming.

“Um, right. Talking,” John reminds himself. “Data.” Sherlock feels an absurd pulse of fondness for John, amongst all the other sensations. “Um. I’m thinking,” he laughs a bit, “I’m thinking how funny it is that they always compare it to a walnut -- the prostate. In medical texts. Feels more like…” he thinks. Then he pulls Sherlock’s finger slowly into his mouth, sucking on the tip for a moment, as they stare at each other. 

Sherlock would feel put out that John has gotten distracted mid-sentence by providing pleasurable input to the sensory organs in his fingertips -- except that he’s too lost in the sensation. He reluctantly enjoys himself until John releases his finger and breathlessly pants, “ -- like the tip of the tongue, a bit -- hard and round, but covered in soft tissue. Two lobes, though.”

And, oh, that is brilliant, and John is brilliant, and oh, oh, oh -- ! 

“I’d like to watch you come like this,” John says. “It’s bloody amazing watching you, and you look like you’re about to go over the edge without my even touching your cock. I want to see that.” Cock. Sherlock had forgotten he possessed such a thing. He stares fuzzily at it, ascertains that it’s right where he left it, and leaking rather prodigiously across his belly. “But then again,” John continues, “I also want to fuck you into the mattress.”

Sherlock nods frantically -- _yesyesyesthatone_ \-- and John grins. “More fingers first?” Sherlock shakes his head. Can’t wait. 

He watches John spread lube on his own cock, and then lean over him, and oh, yes, now Sherlock can feel John’s cock pressing up against him right where his finger was before, feeling absurdly large in comparison. 

“Bear down,” John reminds him gently, unnecessarily, and then he’s pushing in. John goes slow, so slow, but oh, it hurts -- feels strange -- feels wrong in a fascinating way -- Sherlock wonders if there’s a similar wrongness to having a bullet lodged inside you, a foreign body shoving into your muscles and making room where there is none, refusing to give; must remember to find out from John at a later date -- and oh god such a stretch now, he’s on fire. He grits his teeth and makes note of it all. 

John stops, to his frustration. John leans down to kiss him and stroke his hair, and to press his belly against Sherlock’s cock in the process. When John starts pushing in again a half a minute later, Sherlock has relaxed substantially. It’s still very odd, but not painful.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathes. “God, you feel unbelievable. So tight around me. So fucking hot. God. I’m all the way inside you now. Feel?”

Sherlock nods. He feels filled, stretched, invaded, in a way that’s starting to feel rather good. John’s cock twitches within him, and he feels that, too. “Fuck me,” he says again, pleading this time.

John moves inside him slowly, out a bit, then back in. He watches Sherlock’s face with intense concentration from just a few inches away -- “Yesss, Sherlock, you’re gorgeous. Love watching you feel me inside you” -- as he experiments with different angles -- _ohthereyesplease_ \-- and picks up the pace a bit. 

John stops talking, then, except for “oh Christ,” “yes,” “Sherlock,” “you,” “God.” Fortunately, the face of John Watson is a study in utter lack of subtlety when it comes to some things. Sherlock hears him and watches him and feels him, moving faster now, harder. He tries to keep afloat in the sea of sensory input that John gives him. He hears also his own moans growing more ragged and needy. He thinks _please_ or maybe says it, and John is groaning and pulsing and coming inside of him.

Moments later, John reaches a trembling hand out and grabs Sherlock’s cock. With a few quick strokes, Sherlock comes as well. John collapses on top of him, and they lie there, spent, for a while.

Eventually, John reaches toward the bedside table again, this time for clean flannels. They clean up, and then John lies back on the bed, pulling Sherlock into the curl of his arms. “Good?” he whispers into his hair. Sherlock nods. “Mmm. Good.” 

John’s fingers lazily roam his body, no goal in mind. “Sorry I forgot to talk there, for a while,” he says, and Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice.

“Disgraceful, John,” Sherlock manages to say sharply. “We’ll have to record it on my cameraphone next time, if you’re going to fail to report properly.” John giggles, and Sherlock smiles as well. 

John’s fingers pause at a long, white scar along his side, one of several. “Someday,” he says softly, “you’re going to tell me all the stories -- how you got every one of these, and what happened to your wrist. And I’m going to tell you every detail you want to hear about my own scars.”

Sherlock tenses for a brief moment, then relaxes. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).


End file.
